**Diary Entry**
Margaret stared thoughtfully at the beautiful bouquet delivered to her doorstep half an hour ago. There was no mistake—the flowers were meant for her. The note tucked inside confirmed it with just two words: *”To Lovely Margaret.”*
Ever since her divorce, she’d had a secret admirer. The split from Andrew had been brutal—not because of lost love, but because of the venom his mother, Elsie, had poured over her. And Andrew—now her ex—had always sided with his mother.
How strange it all was. That very evening, when Margaret returned home with the divorce papers, the doorbell rang. A courier stood there with an extravagant arrangement of roses. At first, she wondered if it was Andrew mocking her. Then again, he had never been generous—only once, long ago, had he bothered with flowers.
From that day on, bouquets arrived two or three times a week. Each came with a short, anonymous note. Margaret racked her brain trying to guess who could be sending them.
As she admired the roses, she recalled the one time Andrew had ever given her flowers—after a nasty argument. Elsie had made sure to stir trouble between them, as usual.
*”You’re wasting money!”* Andrew had bellowed after learning she’d treated herself to a manicure.
*”It wasn’t that much,”* Margaret argued. *”I work too, you know. I’m allowed to spend on myself.”*
*”We agreed to discuss major expenses together,”* he snapped. *”Mother told me what you spent—it’s outrageous!”*
Margaret scoffed. Of course, Elsie had intervened again. She had despised her daughter-in-law from day one, nitpicking her every move.
Andrew never defended her. He always took his mother’s side. Elsie constantly dripped poison in his ear—complaining about dust on the windows, questioning Margaret’s work attire, even implying she flirted with her boss for promotions.
The final fight erupted when Andrew, unemployed and bitter, accused her of selfishness while she paid all the bills.
*”We can barely cover rent, and you throw money at your nails?”* he screamed.
*”If you want more, maybe get a proper job,”* she shot back.
That night, he called her a leech and told her to pack her bags—he’d only meant to scare her, of course. Elsie assured him Margaret would come crawling back. But she didn’t. She left for her tiny, inherited flat and never looked back.
Then the flowers started coming.
Months later, Margaret ran into Veronica, a distant cousin of Andrew’s, who shared shocking news: Elsie and her husband, Henry, had divorced.
*”Apparently, Aunt Elsie found receipts—he’d been buying flowers for years!”*
Margaret’s heart pounded. Suddenly, she remembered how Henry had quietly defended her when no one else did—how he’d never joined in their cruelty.
That evening, when another bouquet arrived, she called him.
*”Did you send these?”* she whispered.
A pause. *”Yes.”*
*”Why?”*
*”Because I love you. I have for years.”*
She was stunned. He had been married, she’d been married to his son—it was impossible. But Henry only chuckled.
*”I never expected you to love me back. I just wanted you to have roses.”*
Touched yet conflicted, she ended the call. But fate brought them together again when a pipe burst in her flat. Henry rushed over, fixed the problem, and stayed for tea. Slowly, a friendship deepened into love.
Not everyone approved. Andrew hurled insults; Elsie seethed. Margaret’s own mother gasped, *”You’re with an old man!”*
*”He’s not old,”* Margaret replied. *”He’s kind.”*
In the end, it didn’t matter. Henry shielded her from the world’s scorn, filling her life with warmth she’d never known—travel, surprises, unwavering support. They married quietly, bought a home, and left the past behind.
**Lesson learned: Love isn’t about age or scandal—it’s about finding the one who treats you like you’re made of roses.**
